


Perspective

by confusedrambler



Series: AUs and Headcanons [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Character Study, Flashbacks, Gen, Ishval
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-21 02:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confusedrambler/pseuds/confusedrambler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Brotherly!Havoc/Breda one-shot set on the day Black Hayate made his first appearance. Features character exploration, several flashbacks including Ishval, with one really unexpected twist on the whole thing. Hard T for violence and upsetting events.  Written from Havoc's POV. </p>
<p>Disclaimer: I don't own FMA!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perspective

His face had frozen into a stunned smile the moment he'd seen it. He stared down at it, dread creeping throughout his body while he tried to ease his expression into something more relaxed, forcing himself to maintain the carefree image his co-workers had come to expect. He would not- could not- allow a mere memory to get the best of him. His facial muscles loosened, allowing him to adopt a deadpan expression. Not as cheerful as he'd hoped to achieve, but far better than the panicked surprise that had gripped him a moment before. Approaching voices told him that he'd managed to school his expression not a moment too soon.

Hawkeye led a pair of soldiers into the room, greeting him seriously with her customary "Good morning." He probably should have answered her with his own greeting, but it didn't occur to him at the moment. He was still preoccupied with the unwelcome visitor seated clumsily in the middle of the office floor. Hawkeye's mouth twitched into an annoyed frown at his total lack of acknowledgment. She strode across the room, stopping at his side and laying a firm hand on his shoulder before noticing the object of his attention. Her eyebrows furrowed and she stepped past him, frown deepening as she scrutinized the ball of soft fur.

Manny and Falman traded perplexed glances and joined the silent pair. Falman peered at the small creature with habitual gravity, calmly memorizing its characteristics. Manny paled. His eyes widened, darting between Havoc and the animal. He quickly stepped between the two, an expression of exaggerated horror contorting his features.

Hawkeye stared at the chubby animal for a moment longer before directing a question to the room at large.

"What is this?"

Falman stepped forward, a twinkle in his eye.

"A 'dog.' Order: Carnivora, Family: Canidae, Scientific Name: Canis Familiaris. An animal that was bred from the wolf and hunts in packs."

Jean swallowed convulsively.

"I wasn't asking about that, Warrant Officer Falman."

Fuery burst into the room and stopped in his tracks, surprised to find his co-workers in the office when it had been completely empty just a moment ago. He sprang across the room, nervously clutching a small bowl of water and a towel.

"I'm so sorry! This is the dog I picked up this morning!"

He set the bowl down and folded the thing inside his slender arms, patting it gently with the towel.

Jean placed a hand on Manny's shoulder and squeezed tightly before brushing past him, bored expression pasted across his face, as usual. He inclined his head towards the creature, barely suppressing a groan.

"Hmm...You're going to take care of this dog, Master Sergeant Fuery?"

The flustered young man shook his head from side to side, glasses sliding down his nose.

"I can't. I live in a dormitory, so I can't keep him."

Jean straightened and folded his arms, glaring disapprovingly at the bundle of fur.

"You shouldn't pick him up if you can't take care of him."

Fuery wilted under his gaze, not expecting such a negative response.

"But he was shivering outside in the rain..."

The young sergeant bit at his lip and shifted his weight from foot to foot, still cradling the creature against his chest. He perked up an instant later, looking at Falman with a hopeful sort of desperation.

"Oh, maybe somebody else can keep this dog."

Falman huffed in annoyance, crossing his arms tightly, as if he thought Fuery would try to shove the thing into his arms.

"I can't since I live in a dormitory."

He called on Heymans next, though his voice trailed off when he registered the look of complete terror transforming the other man's face.

"I hate dogs! I really hate them!"

It was amazing how over-the-top Manny could be when he tried. Jean didn't miss the way he held the door open, pretending to hide behind it. He also didn't miss the way his eyes kept flickering to meet his own-especially during that obnoxiously loud declaration, inviting him to escape. He imagined he was trying to say something like _Hurry up, you idiot! You're next!_

He definitely owed that guy a drink.

"So the answer is no..."

Jean made a snap decision. Better to be on the offensive than the defensive. Better to surprise than be surprised. He steeled himself and yanked the...dog out of Fuery's hands, pinching loose folds of skin between three fingers, not willing to touch it more than what he deemed necessary.

"I'll take him then."

* * *

"'Atta boy, Gunner! Trap that rascal! Jean, my boy, here's your chance! Catch 'em down by the bluff!"

"Got it, Pops!"

He shot off through the woods, dodging branches and leaping over ditches. He stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled high and hard, just like Pops had taught him. He heard the howls of his pack, fast coming on him as he rushed headlong towards Pop's baying brood.  
He called out to them, urging them on before their boar bulled his way past Pop's smaller pack.

"Hie, Chasee! Hie, boys we've got him now!"

They thundered past him, Magnum leading with deep-chested growls, his mate and pups racing after on paws that were still a touch too big for them. He knew they'd finally sighted the boar because they've stopped making any noise at all.

He laughed and put on an extra turn of speed, anxious to complete the hunt. He could see the smudge of frantic movement that marked his quarry in the center of the bluff, the boar pressing the bay dogs hard. His gripped the hilt of his hunting knife and charged down the last hill, heart flying in his throat.

_Almost there._

His pack crashed past the baying hounds, Magnum charging to meet the boar head-on with flailing claws and snapping teeth, Chasee darting towards its flanks, the pups leaping for anything and everything.

_Almost._

First blood goes to the boar, he can see the froth dripping from its tusks as it takes a swipe at Chasee, slicing open that left hind leg that's always been a hair slower than the rest of her. She retreats with a whimper and Magnum has it by the ear, throwing its head against the churned earth. The pups rip at its throat and head, keeping it down.

_There._

He scrambles behind the squealing tangle of hog and dog, unsheathing his blade with practiced hands.

"Hold!"

He screams the command and waits for his opportunity. The tangle of jaws and paws clear for an instant and he's diving into the pile. Teeth are snapping at his hands, the boar struggling mightily to heave itself to its feet, and after frantic maneuvering, the tip of his knife plunges deep into its chest. Blood sprays, the boar shudders and collapses, and his pack springs away.

Chest heaving, covered in filth, still crouching over the carcass- he celebrates his success.

This is the first time he's ever killed with his pack.

He's certain it won't be his last.

He loves every minute of it.

* * *

"I love dogs."

* * *

When he'd joined the army six months ago, he'd never imagined that he'd end up like this.

He'd always thought himself a fair shot- once Pop had finally started trusting him with a rifle, he'd practiced with it until his shoulder was numb- but he hadn't known how good he was until some of those city boys took a crack at the range. Poor saps couldn't hit the backside of a barn!

Well, when his CO found out, he'd shoved him into some kinda _advanced_ class where they were _supposed_ to learn things like how to shoot at the same time, but there was always one _dunderhead_ who just couldn't get it through his thick skull that 'Fire!' meant 'Pull the trigger _now_!'

And just two months back, when he'd mentioned how he and Pop raised hunting dogs- you'd have thought he was an honest-to-goodness officer! They'd whisked him out of basic and into reconnaissance so fast he swore his head was _still_ spinning. They'd given him a dog named Taz, a crash course in scouting- And he could have figured _that_ out on his own because really it all boiled down to 'Don't get caught, use the dog, and do what you're told.' -and now here he was.

Ishval.

* * *

"Wah! Thank you very much, First Lieutenant Havoc!"

* * *

Breda's just finished jotting down the last few details when Taz gives the signal.

He doesn't waste any time. They've had too many close calls.

He tackles the other man to the ground, stifling his cry of surprise with a fist shoved against his mouth. He hardly dares to breathe, but Breda's gotta know and they've gotta _move_ or the jig is up.

" _Red_."

(One word is all it ever takes for Breda to know exactly what's going on. Sometimes Jean thinks that one word is one too many.)

Taz is still in his corner, head raised and ears at point, fang showing to indicate _foe_ rather than _friend_. But they have no friends here- just each other and a scruffy dog that's saved their lives more times than he can count.

He lets go of Breda and they're both scrambling to hide in the darkest corners of the room, behind broken crates, anywhere they can think of. It's hard to move without making noise, but they've long since learned a few tricks of the trade.

Noise is the enemy. Tools up as soon as you're done with them. Being clean is a Bad Idea- dirt blends in better and shine attracts attention. Guns are a last resort. Station yourself in an area with multiple exits and always, always, _always_ be ready to run or engage.

They can hear voices now, coming closer all the time. He meets Breda's eye and jerks his head to the back way in. They ease their way to the empty arch, Havoc flashing a sign at Taz, and they're just about to slip outside when the Ishvalans are upon them.

* * *

"Apparently, they taste great when eaten stir-fried."

* * *

They're coming.

A dust cloud marks their advancement, the cacophany of snarls, howls, and heavy footfall coming ever closer.

He pales and swears, hands tightening on the butt of his rifle. Taz halts his search for survivors, a near-silent growl erupting from his chest as he takes a guard stance at Jean's feet. He can't decide if he's glad Heymans is on furlough or not.

He thinks not.

They wait.

The pack of feral dogs rounds the corner and they all grind to a halt- circling, taunting, testing.

He recognizes a few of them. There's Dardo's mutt, over there is Maverick's, and cringing in the back is Sheridan's bitch-no doubt the most recent addition as they'd only found the body yesterday.

What was left of it, at least.

A slat-ribbed mongrel lunges forward, intent on the pile of corpses behind the pair and is driven back by a swift kick to the ribs and a threatening snap of teeth.

The pack surges forward then and all thought is whittled down to the all-important _l_ _ive_. He can't stop all of them. He kicks at everything he can reach and swings the butt of his rifle with intensity, yelping dogs scattering with every heavy blow before darting back to the fray. Every time he gets a chance, he sweeps his improvised club behind him, throwing ravenous dogs off stinking bodies.

He can't stop them all.

He doesn't know how long they've been involved in the fight, but the pack leaves just as suddenly as they arrived, the swollen remains of an Ishvalan child dragging behind them. He manages to fire a single shot into the pack before they round the corner and one of the savages falls.

He falls to his knees, gasping for breath, nursing minor cuts and bruises with shaking hands. Taz joins him, licking at wounds and face with rough-hot-wet- _dirty_ tongue and all he can do is think that he's glad Heymans isn't here, after all.

* * *

"They're raised as food in one of the countries out to the far east. They say the red dogs taste the best..."

* * *

They've been holed up here for days. The supply drop is late and he can't help but think that maybe they've been left behind- forgotten. They're out of food and they're saving what little bit of water they have left- taking desperate, tiny sips and searching the sky for rain, bodies for forgotten canteens, and the roads for any sign of their missing supplies.

Manny insists that they sleep as much during the day as possible, taking turns to keep a lookout and conserving as much energy as they can. He doesn't know how much that will help, but Manny says it's their only chance so he does it. He's never been wrong before.

At night they go hunting. They've only managed to catch a few lizards and a rat.

It's not enough. Not by a long shot.

Everything's been picked clean and they're getting desperate.

They scrape by for another week.

There's a massive fire to the west.

A week and three days.

They can still smell ash and cooked flesh.

Two weeks.

They're nearly out of bullets.

Two weeks, five days, and thirteen hours.

He can't think straight anymore.

Two weeks, six days, and nine hours.

The dogs are back. And this time...

They're not after the bodies.

They fight them off with anything they can find.

He swings his rifle like a club, crushing paws and ribs.

Manny's got a wooden plank with nails sticking through, tearing off fur and skin by strips.

Taz, the idiot dog, is standing his ground against the alpha and his bitch, middle swollen to bursting with growing pups. His slat-ribbed mutt gives as good as he gets, tearing the bitch's ear off when she tries to flank him. But while he's got his back turned, the other male pounces- and Jean wants to help, but he's as good as dead and he's got his own problems to worry about. He tries to push the memories down, ignores the fact that his partner is being torn apart and eaten by his own kind- that the creature who's saved his life more times than he can count is _just an animal_ and he shouldn't be crying over such a stupid, _stupid_ dog.

He chokes and brings his gun about with more force than ever before, splitting a rangy male's skull open like a ripe melon. When the pack finally realizes that this prey has _teeth_ and their pack-mate _isn't getting back up_ , they switch targets, threatening to overwhelm Manny.

Heart in his throat, Jean dives toward them. They're not taking Manny, too. He's not gonna be alone in this hellish place. His rifle shatters the jaw of a rust colored female and snaps, the stock breaking off just behind the trigger. He throws it at another mongrel trying to sneak up on them and pulls his old knife out with a snarl.

"Leave him _alone_ you sons of _bitches_. You wanna eat something eat _this!_ "

He slashes right, left, and right- he's not even aiming anymore, just throwing himself at anything fur-covered and moving. He's back-to-back with Manny now, and he's screaming something, but at the moment Jean's too caught up to pay any attention- growling and stabbing at the few dogs still left in his strike zone. He sinks his blade into the belly of a leaping mutt with a quick twist, gutting the yelping animal, and they're finally, finally _gone_.

He throws his knife to the ground and staggers over to whats left of his partner, sinking to his knees in front of the corpse. His hands shake, but he knots his fingers into ragged fur, bowing over the ravaged body with a strangled croak, forehead touching crimson-soaked bristles.

"Sorry. Sorry, boy. I'll- I'll get 'em next time, don't you worry. I'll get 'em next time."

He doesn't know how long he kneels there, but when Manny grips his shoulder he knows it's time to get up. He forces himself upright, dragging a ruined sleeve over his eyes, smearing gore across his face. Not that he notices or cares. Cleanliness is something he hasn't thought about for longer than he can remember.

Manny holds a chunk of something out to him and he realizes it's cooked meat. He stiffens, bile creeping up his throat. Manny looks ashamed and guilty and there's a tinge of green to his skin, but fierce determination is there as well.

"We've gotta eat, Jean. We've got to."

Jean shakes his head slowly, swallowing convulsively.

"I can't. I c-can't!"

Heymans steps forward, frustration coloring his features, his words much harsher than before.

"Yes you _can_. It's us or _them_ , Jean and _they're_ already dead. It's _food_ , Jean. We don't have a _choice_."

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes and he's _furious_. He lunges forward, an accusing finger stabbing towards the furry bodies littered around the city, hissing and spitting with barely-controlled anger.

"You _saw_ them, Breda. You _saw_. They eat _everything_. You _know that_. You've _seen them_. They'd eat their own pups and God knows they've eaten human children! I'm not going to eat some _cannibal_ and I'm _definitely_ not going to eat some poor bastard second-hand!"

Breda's skin takes on a more pronounced green tinge and now he just looks desperate.

"Then what are we supposed to do? We just- just give up and die here? We starve to death and let the dogs eat us? Is that it? Answer me!"

Jean stares at him, grim-faced and silent. Neither moves until a booming roar and wall of flame ignites in the distance. Jean closes his eyes and exhales quietly, jaw clenching.

"Yeah, Manny. That's exactly what we do. We starve."

Manny throws the piece of meat to the ground, tears brightening his eyes and his voice shakes.

"Don't do this to me Jean. Don't _do_ this. Don't you _dare_ give up on us."

Jean opened his eyes, a feral grin snaking across his face.

"Who said anything about giving up? I'm not going down without a fight. Come on, Manny. We're going _hunting._ "

* * *

"Let's look for somebody else to take care of him."

* * *

Another week passes.

He can't believe they're still alive.

With his knife and Breda's improvised weapons (Sometimes he uses metal bars, other times rope knotted around spikes or nails or just heavy pieces of wood, and every once in a while he'll get lucky and find bullets, but they always save those for the truly desperate fights.) they've managed to out-survive every enemy they'd come across. Feral dogs. Ishvalans. That one Amestrian soldier that had been out here so long he'd gone completely 'round the bend. He didn't like to think of it as hunting anymore. He didn't even think of it as _killing_ anymore. They were just...surviving.

Today's patrol has been extremely profitable- they've got a full canteen of water, an old loaf of bread, a half-eaten roll of sausage, and a few dried figs. It's enough for a couple of meals if they stretch it out. (And they've gotten good at stretching things out. Almost too good.) But he doesn't dare stop moving, patrolling, killing, _hunting_. They still don't know where the main force of the army is and who knows where their next meal is coming from. So they keep going.

It's terrifying. Knowing with each and every battle that you're out-gunned or out-numbered, usually both at the same time. That there really isn't anything else to do but jump into the fray and hope to come out alive. But with each skirmish, each ambush, each kill there's a little voice in the back of his mind that says _It should be you, you know. Maybe this time it will be. Could be nice to just...give up._ And he knows that that same little voice that eats him up inside is feasting on Breda as well. He can see it behind his eyes, right above the deep purple bruises that never seem to go away, in that instant of hesitance before he pulls the trigger, in the way he trembles and sniffles in the dead of night when he thinks Jean is asleep.

But they push on and Manny doesn't know it, but the only reason he can get up in the morning is 'cause he's gotta be strong for his brother. That's what they are now, he thinks. Brothers. And that's all he _can_ think about now, the same desperate questions running marathons in his too-tired brain.

How are you gonna feed Manny today? How are you gonna keep him safe? How are you gonna get him back home? What are you gonna do when he dies because you just weren't _good enough_?

And he knows the answer to that last one, but he'd never tell Manny that in a million years. He doesn't even want to admit it to himself and he knows he's a hundred times harder than Manny will ever be. He thinks that makes him the older brother, but he's never had one to know for sure. He decides it doesn't really matter, anyhow.

Just so long as Manny's safe.

* * *

"I was kidding."

* * *

It was days before he realized the significance of the ever-closer sheets of flame.

He remembered stories...stories about a man- a soldier in the Amestrian army. An alchemist. Tales so fantastic they could almost be legend or myth. They called him the Flame- the _Sun_. A man who burned so bright you could go _blind_ in the face of his intensity. If men were willing to go blind to follow him, he must stand for something... _more_. There had to be something about him better than sight, better than _anything_ , and the only thing he could think of right now that he wanted more than anything else in the world...was safety. Not for himself- for Manny. Heck, if it meant Manny would be safe, he'd claw his own eyes out and hand them over on a silver platter.

So the next time the city burned, he pulled Manny towards the fire- drawn like a moth to the flame.

* * *

The rest of the work day passed in a fog, Manny always staying close at hand.

Somehow he made it through most of his paperwork without any major mistakes.

Fuery popped back into the office right around close, the pup still cradled in his hands. The Colonel began some sort of discussion with the younger man and Jean abruptly turned to Manny.

"Heymans. Whatcha think? Wanna go out for drinks tonight?"

The broader man grunted and thought for a minute, looking him up and down.

"I dunno. I'm not really in the mood to be around a bunch of noisy, slobbering idiots. Are you?"

Jean laughed harshly. Always thinking ahead, wasn't he.

"Guess not. My place then?"

"Nah, mine's closer. Cleaner too."

"Probably so, Heymans. Guess I'll just have to come mess it up again, huh. Not healthy to be _too_ clean, after all."

"Sure. Whatever you say, Hav."

He smiled half-heartedly and opened his mouth to answer when Fuery got loud again.

"First Lieutenant!"

The Colonel laughed and slapped the twenty-three year-old on the back.

"That's why I told you. She is a kind person."

Jean wandered over to the group, keeping the tiny smile pasted across his face.

"So you found an owner for him? Good for you."

The pup drank greedily from a saucer, ignoring the conversation above. It was almost hard to reconcile the tiny ball of fluff with the snarling killing machines in his mind. He couldn't imagine this one growing up to be a monster like that.

"Since the First Lieutenant will be handling him, she'll definitely rear him up the right way."

The younger man beamed.

"I'm so relieved!"

Then the idiot pup had to do what all dogs do and ruin the moment.

"Ah. I better clean up the me-"

The distinctive sound of a cocked gun followed closely by seven consecutive shots cut the younger man off and left them all in horrified disbelief.

Lieutenant Hawkeye knelt next to the pup and sternly pointed to a tray lined thickly with newspaper.

"Bad! This is the bathroom. Understand?"

The pup shook, staring up at his new master in terror.

"Okay, good boy."

Jean swallowed thickly and backed away, nearly running back to his desk. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes and darted out the door, not even waiting until he was out of the hall to light up with shaking hands. He took a long drag and shut his eyes tightly, trying to beat off the memories with nicotine.

Manny appeared with his coat soon after he lit his second cigarette, his hands only trembling instead of the uncontrollable shaking before.

"Here. Thought you might need this."

"You're a life-saver Manny."

"I know."

Jean sat down on the steps with a laugh. He took another drag and stared out into the city, blowing smoke through his nose.

"You know something, Manny? Nothing changes. Not really."

Heymans sat down with a grunt and bumped the taller man with his shoulder.

"Maybe not. Doesn't mean we can't try, though."

Jean grinned.

"Yeah."

"Jean?"

"Hm?"

"Let's go hunting."

Jean stood with a fierce grin and hauled the other man up by the arm.

"Took the words right outta my mouth."

Nothing like searching for the perfect vintage to end a hard day's work.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a scrap of my headcanon that got a bit out of control. If you look hard enough in my other fics, you'll probably be able to make out a few references to it. 
> 
> One further tidbit that I didn't manage to work in: Breda's time in Ishval left him with quite a few mental scars- just like Havoc. Breda has great difficulty with actually facing anyone in a fight now. He asked Mustang to give him a desk job so he wouldn't be a hindrance to the team. No one else is supposed to know about their arrangement.  
> They do.  
> They admire Breda's dedication.


End file.
